


The Road to Coexistence

by Resoan



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:34:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26845951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resoan/pseuds/Resoan
Summary: After five years entrenched in war, the three leaders may have finally found cause to set aside their stark differences. A looming threat of immortal bandits comes onto the horizon, and threatens to swallow all of their territories if they don't act together.AKA the secret fifth route where peace is achievable for all the lords.
Kudos: 4





	The Road to Coexistence

**Author's Note:**

> No pairings yet, though I'm honestly not even sure I'll include them at all. If readers have a preference, please let me know in the comments! I'll add character tags as I go, as well as updates to the rating if it needs to change.

The years following Professor Byleth's disappearance are truly tumultuous. Every region of Fódlan is in a state of upheaval, and Hubert has heard whispers of _something_ going on in the East where his spies are few and their information is questionable at best. It is unavoidable, truly, given how much of their attention must be focused on the West where the former Kingdom's lords refuse to bow to their rightful Emperor. 

Still, it makes Hubert uneasy, and such is unacceptable when Lady Edelgard's defense _relies_ on him and his unsurpassed ability to gather intelligence and piece together an enemy's plot before they even act. 

Such is why he sent the Death Knight to be his eyes and ears; he is certainly not Hubert's first choice, but few can stand against him and survive – and if a few die due to his bloodlust, will it be noticed among the rest of the casualties the Alliance's in-fighting claims?

His thoughts are scattering around him like marbles dropped from his hand, and a twitch creases Hubert's brow as the tip of his quill scratches through the parchment, making the letter he was writing unreadable. After consciously easing the tension from his jaw Hubert takes a breath before settling a little more firmly against the back of his chair, the flickering light of the candle hardly sufficient for his purposes, but it will do. 

The last thing he expects is to see a bird fly up to his window and perch on the sill, though when he glances over at it – fully expecting it to flee from the sight of him – it merely squawks, and Hubert's eyes are drawn to a small bit of parchment tethered to one of its legs. He stands gracefully, as silent and deft as a shadow, and the bird screeches a little more loudly when Hubert unties the parchment and it finally comes loose. 

“Quiet,” Hubert admonishes the bird, unraveling his missive before offering the creature a bit of scrap from his untouched dinner. He ignores the twitch of a smile at his mouth as he settles back into his chair, fully intending on making use of the light to read by, though he needn't have bothered. 

Jeritza's handwriting is bold and hurried, and the red dots slashed across the bottom make Hubert's heart sink. How could he have known gathering intel in the Alliance would spell the end of the Death Knight? His heart grows heavier at the thought of telling Lady Edelgard one of her most trusted retainers is dead, but the contents of the admittedly-brief letter unsettle him far more. 

_**They're coming.** _

_**The war is nothing but distraction.** _

_**They want blood, and they will use their old allies to get it. Only the crests will end them.** _

_**Tell... tell Merced** _

There is nothing more, but Hubert's hands are shaking as he rereads the scant sentences that Jeritza managed to send him. It will have to be enough. 

Hubert is standing before he even realizes what he's doing. Edelgard needs to know. Their crusade against Seiros... it cannot be ignored, but neither can this, especially not if it's what Hubert imagines it to be. 

–

Claude sighs for what feels like the twentieth time that evening. No matter how many missives and petitions he reads, it seems as though the stack never dwindles. He stifles a yawn then stands, the oversized map of Fódlan drawing his eye as it tends to more often than not. Every city and place of import is marked appropriately, every ally and enemy colored and connected, and Claude takes several moments to soak everything in once more. Even the memory of Garreg Mach being assaulted is enough to dizzy him, but even after years of trying to understand Edelgard and what she's doing... Claude finds himself at a loss, and _gods_ does he hate to lose.

It doesn't help that he only has half the requisite puzzle pieces to put it all together, though. The church does its best to hide all the information that would paint it in an unflattering light, and Edelgard is about as forthcoming as the church when it comes to her own motivations. Not that Claude has _asked_ her, of course. Holding the Alliance together as the other lords squabble and the Empire nips at their borders is work enough without trying to carry all of Fódlan's burdens on his back too.

The quiet of the Duke's estate is abruptly shattered, however. Claude hears the rush of hoof-beats in the courtyard before he sees the horses from his window, and a messenger is already zooming up the stairs to him before he can turn around. The guards delay him only a moment, and then a young man no older than Claude himself is huffing and puffing, his hands on his knees before he looks up and Claude starts from the sheer _terror_ he sees there.

“Th-the Throat, it's lost!” the young man breathes, and Claude's eyes widen. 

“What do you mean, the Throat is lost? Is it the Almyrans?” Claude demands, concern edging into his tone despite himself. What of the Goneril troops? What of Nader? 

“No, Mi'lord! It wasn't Almyrans. At first we thought it were bandits but...,” his voice trails off as he visibly swallows and turns away, from fear or shame or something else Claude cannot tell.

“But _what_? Speak, soldier! Tell me what's happened.” Claude's patience is running thin, and he feels a pang of sympathy as the boy flinches away from his sharper tone.

“Everyone's dead. The Goneril troops _and_ the Almyrans who picked the worst time to try and cross the border.” The boy's head hangs lower, and Claude feels ice-cold dread seep down into his belly; surely this is a nightmare from which he'll wake in a few moments...

“What of Holst?” Claude asks, though the look on the boy's face makes him wince. He knows the answer already. “Are these bandits on the move? Where are they headed? What can you tell me?” 

“Take a breath, boy. He's scared, and you interrogating him isn't helping.” Claude looks up to see Judith leaning against the open doorway, arms crossed beneath her chest. “Go. I'll speak to the Duke.” The boy nods gratefully before bounding away, and Claude rakes a hand back through his hair as Judith steps away from the door and comes closer. “The boy speaks truly. It was a slaughter, the likes of which even I've never seen before.” 

Claude's lips purse at that. “How do we defeat them?” 

“I'm not sure we _can_ ,” Judith tells him sharply, and the look she gives him makes him feel as though he truly were nothing more than a boy masquerading as a leader. The Alliance deserves better, and Claude laments that he is what they have instead.

“Judith, _please_. There has to be something. Do you know what their objective is? Are they trying to take over? Are they working for the Empire?” 

“They didn't fly any Imperial banner that I saw,” Judith answers vaguely, though there's something to her answer that implies she isn't telling him everything. “They slaughtered both sides to a man. They didn't care about coats or crests or colors. This isn't about politics.” She shakes her head definitively, and Claude's arms cross over his chest. 

“So what is it about?” Judith, for a change, flinches away from his piercing gaze, though whatever triumph he might have felt is wholly eclipsed by the situation. 

“I don't know, Claude,” Judith murmurs. “But they're heading north, and fast. I would give them maybe two days before they march on Derdriu.” Claude winces at the news, and his eyes suddenly return to the map, trying to plot out the best course to evacuate as many civilians as possible. 

“There's one more thing, mister boss man,” Judith states, though Claude's gaze does not lift from the map until she noticeably remains silent. He lifts his gaze irritably – he doesn't have _time_ for these games right now – to see her hip cocked to one side, the concern on her face curious and remarkable. It isn't an expression he's seen before. 

“They... can't die.”

Surely Claude hasn't heard her properly. “Can't die? What are you talking about?” Claude lifts an eyebrow as he waits for her to explain, though under any other circumstances he might have casually accused her of having one drink too many. 

“One of the men took an arrow, right through the neck. He plucked it out, tossed it aside, and kept going.”


End file.
